I am walking barefoot down a dirt road on a mid-summer morning. There is no known destination. A small yellow butterfly appears to be following me, floating in its fractal patterns but always returning to the line I’m following. It finally rests on a branch of red ripe raspberries, their sun-warmed fragrance rising with the rising warmth of the sun-drenched day. I lean over and pick several of the juicy ones until I have a hand-full.
A chipmunk scurries across the road as I resume my walking and the butterfly its floating. I pick a berry from my mouth and place it on my tongue. The outside is warm but its bite is juicy cool. A breeze moves the high branches of an oak tree. Two crows fly by. I place another berry in my mouth. A flash of something moves through the woods. There’s a sound of a splash in a nearby brook. Another berry. A single cumulus cloud forms in a cobalt-blue sky, changing shapes as the wind softly fingers it edges, now a turtle, then a heron.
There’s still a few berries in my hand so I pop the rest in my mouth. The sun goes down. The sun comes up. Dinosaurs are turning into bluebirds. Oceans are turning into canyons. I’m standing at the edge of a sunburnt mesa, waiting for the total eclipse of the moon. A raven turns to talk to me. “You’re really making quite a day of it,” its vocals echoing off the rainbow cliffs as feathers shimmer with the blackness of absolute light. I stub my toe on a rock in the road and feel the stars of fourteen billion years. A coyote laughs in the distance, before the universe was born. So I am too.
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